[Intro] (Strummed acoustic guitar, slightly detuned. A dusty hip-hop breakbeat enters. The sound of a supermarket scanner beeping in the distance.) [Verse 1] Stepped inside the temple of the middle-class dream Searching for some sourdough and organic clotted cream Rocking linen shorts, feeling breezy, feeling prime A victim of a vindaloo from Wednesday supper time I was browsing through the hummus, looking for the lemon zest When a rumbling in my underbelly put me to the test A seismic shifting tectonic, a bubble in the gut I thought it was a gaseous vent, a simple little strut But as I reached for balsamic, the aged and the refined A catastrophic failure hit the portion of my hind. [Chorus] Oh, it’s a tragedy in Waitrose, a puddle in the aisle Trying to maintain a very dignified profile In my tailored cotton shorts, now a canvas for the sin Amongst the quinoa and the kale and the artisanal gin (Artisanal gin, what a state I’m in) A liquid betrayal, a fountain of regret The posh-est little accident that hasn’t happened yet. [Verse 2] I’m doing the waddle, the penguin of the deli With a hot and heavy burden sitting south of the belly I passed a woman named Camilla, she was buying overpriced brie She looked at my beige garments and she looked back at me The internal rhymes are escalating, my dignity is vacating The self-checkout is waiting and the smell is suffocating I’m a culinary casualty, a bowel-based fatality Facing up to the reality of my own mortality Two Pounds Fifty for a scotch egg? I’d pay a thousand quid To undo the murky business that my nether regions did. [Bridge] [Slowed Down, Bass Drops Out] (Plucked cello solo, very somber) I looked at the Essential range, the irony was thick My shorts are no longer essential, I’m feeling rather sick The flaxseed and the fiber, the organic muesli crunch Have conspired in a mutiny against my Sunday lunch. [Verse 3] [Fast Rap, Double Time] Now I’m sprinting for the exit but I’m moving like a snail Leaving evidence behind me like a gastropod’s trail Past the olives, past the capers, past the sun-dried tomatoes Feeling like a human mash of over-boiled potatoes The cashier is staring, she’s a teenager named Sue She knows exactly what I’ve done, she’s seen the brownish hue I didn't want a bag, I wanted a hole in the ground To swallow up the shame and the wet and squelchy sound. [Chorus] Oh, it’s a tragedy in Waitrose, a puddle in the aisle Trying to maintain a very dignified profile In my tailored cotton shorts, now a canvas for the sin Amongst the quinoa and the kale and the artisanal gin (Artisanal gin, what a state I’m in) A liquid betrayal, a fountain of regret The posh-est little accident that hasn’t happened yet. [Outro] [Beat Fades, Only Mandolin Remains] Sixty Nine Pence for a loose banana. Five Pounds for the dignity I’ve lost. I’ll stick to Tesco next time. Or maybe just... Deliveroo. (Backing vocals: The smell... the shame... the Duchy range...) [Final Acoustic Chord] [End]
